


As a Charm Upon Them

by mnemosyne



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-06
Updated: 2012-11-06
Packaged: 2017-11-18 02:16:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/555775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mnemosyne/pseuds/mnemosyne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vignettes, Guinevere and her knights.</p>
            </blockquote>





	As a Charm Upon Them

**Percival**  
  
A rainy day finds Percival dashing, mudsplattered and swearing through a door in the palace. It isn't perhaps the most dignified thing for a man in a trusted circle of the king's knights, but he vows to start caring about that once he's back in his quarters and these stupid leaking boots are off his feet.  
  
Ordinarily he doesn't mind the watch, enjoys the slow march around his town; he loves the people, smiles and waves and wonders if any of them know he would die for them in half a heartbeat. But today, today there is nobody out, no children spinning breathless around him, no flirtatious eyes or welcoming smiles, all driven inside by the swirling sleet.  
  
Tearing at sodden garments even as he reaches his door, Percival does not notice the slim figure in the corner. When he does, his tunic haphazard and halfway off his chest, he freezes, dripping rainwater to the cold stone floor.  
  
"Your Highness!" he manages, "My apologies, I didn't-"  
  
The queen has her back to him and he can see that her shoulders are shaking, though he cannot hear her laugh. Percival can feel his face turning red. She holds up one hand, the other one pressed firmly against her mouth.  
  
"No," she says after a moment, "don't. I meant to be out of here before you arrived."  
  
She gestures to a seat, where a tray of food it set out, chicken and bread and cheese and soup and if he had not noticed the smell in his haste to get out of his wet clothes, it's all he can think of now. A large goblet of steaming wine sits beside the tray, adding delicate scents to the air. Percival's stomach growls.  
  
"You looked awfully cold," the queen says, sidling towards the door. "Don't let me keep you."  
  
Percival can still hear her footsteps echoing through the corridors as he finishes changing and falls upon the meal she has laid out.

 **Leon**  
  
The chapel door swings shut heavy behind him, but Leon barely registers the sound. He feels no better than he had an hour ago, and a small part of him flickers with a resentment he does not recognise. Two men today, four in the last fortnight, all the same stretch of land, picked off by some all but invisible band of cutthroats. He'd sworn to the king that he would deal with the problem, but still they kept coming and who was he that he could not solve as simple a task as an outlaw band.  
  
He clenches his fists as he walks, tries to force his face into the calm impassive stare that he knows decorum demands of him. It would not do for him to appear beaten before the men, nor moreso to appear as if he has let the anger raging within him to break through. It is not what a leader of men should be.  
  
So he breathes slowly, deeply, lets the inane chatter of servants and nobles wash over him like so much riverwater and tries to let himself be swept away. He knows it will not work.  
  
"Sir Leon?"  
  
Her voice breaks through the chatter, soft and as steady as steel. He turns, musters a smile.  
  
The queen quirks the side of her mouth, her face gentle and sad. "Might you spare a moment?" she asks.  
  
He nods, though he doesn't want to speak to anyone, wants to fantasise that he will fall into the the tavern and spend the night with a girl on his knee and a half dozen tankards of ale in his belly, as he slinks into his bed and curl his face away from the dark.  
  
The queen steps forwards, presses a small hand against his arm.  
  
"I heard that you suffered more today," she says quietly. Leon does not move. "I wanted to offer my condolences."  
  
"Thank you, your Highness," Leon offers, and even to his ears the words ring hollow with weariness. The queen frowns.  
  
"You cannot blame yourself," she says, and fixes him with a piercing stare when he opens his mouth to protest. "I know that you do, Leon, so do not try to convince me."  
  
"I cannot lose any more men."  
  
The hand on his sleeve presses harder. "And you will not."  
  
"You cannot assure me of that." Leon is sharper than he means and the queen waves away an apology that dies on his lips.  
  
"You and I," she says, "Sir Leon, you and I are going to solve this one tonight." She raises her other hand and for the first time Leon sees the maps she is holding, and the scrolls that have been tucked under her arm.  
  
"There is a village," she says, and Leon can hear the resolve burning in her voice,"called Exceat, about two miles south. And I have petitioned its head for information. I believe has been most helpful. Will you listen?"  
  
For the first time in several days, Leon can feel a genuine smile begin to form upon his face.

 **Elyan**  
  
The queen is leaning altogether unregally on a fencepost, watching as knights queued to knock the stuffing out of her husband. She is unruffled, Elyan thinks, by it all. He regards her as he waits his turn, sees the fond line of her jaw as she watches Arthur parry blows that another man could not have turned aside. She looks resplendent in red and gold and he cannot help but smile; if this fairytale had to happen to anyone, he is glad that it happened to his sister.  
  
On impulse, he leaves his place and walks to her. Percival and Arthur are squaring off now and by all accounts it looks to be a long match. The king is breathing heavily, but there is a wicked glint in his eyes that would do well, Elyan can see, for Percival to be wary of.  
  
"Sir Elyan," Guinevere greets with a smile, "how nice of you to pay me a visit."  
  
He makes a face at her and she laughs. " _Highness_ ," he says and effects an elaborate bow, ruined only by the same quick shove he remembers well from his childhood. When he regains his balance, his sister is grinning at him, eyebrow raised and daring him to retaliate.  
  
"Not in front of the lads, eh?" he says, for he can feel eyes boring into the back of his head. "I've been reprimanded once for familiarity."  
  
"It's because you have no manners," Guinevere tells him archly, and immediately softens, the warm fondness he knows so well spreading over her face. "If I had my way none of you would treat me so deferentially," she says, in a low, secret voice, "I am still just Gwen."  
  
Elyan shakes his head, raises a hand to cup his sister's face. If Leon wants to take him to task for it later, he thinks, then he will just let him, for he needs to say this to her.  
  
"You have never been 'just Gwen'," he replies seriously, "I think, somehow, you were always going to come to this, my queen."  
  
On the field, the knights laugh raucously, jostle and knock each other about, but the queen remains still amongst it all, arms grasped tight around her brother.

 **Gwaine**  
  
"If you like, Highness," Gwaine says, slouching over the wall, partly by design and partly because his head is spinning just a little too much to stand upright for very long, "I will still bring you flowers every day."  
  
The sun has barely risen, the small courtyard still painted golden pinks, but the queen is up already, sitting quiet amongst the garden. Gwaine often found her there when the weather was well; usually he would steal away again, down to find himself some breakfast or head towards the training grounds. Sometimes, just sometimes, she would catch him watching, would smile that same smile that once left him with a pounding heart and a muddled brain, and invite him in to talk with her. Sometimes it felt as if he lived for those moments.  
  
"You, _Sir_ Gwaine," the queen says, "are a terrible flirt."  
  
Gwaine pretends to consider her words, before nodding, unashamed. In what he hopes is a lithe fashion, he hops over the wall, and if the queen notices his less than elegant dismount, she is kind enough to not tell him so.  
  
"What brings you out here this morning," the queen asks, adding quickly, "and do not say me for I know that you are lying."  
  
"It's too beautiful a day to stay in bed," Gwaine tries.  
  
The queen raises an eyebrow.  
  
"I got up very early to watch the sunrise."  
  
A polite cough.  
  
"I fell asleep in the tavern and was sneaking back inside and then walked this way more by accident than design because if I am not still drunk then it is definitely the beginnings of a terrible hangover."  
  
She laughs then, throws back her head and even through the pounding in his brain, Gwaine cannot remember the last time he saw anything more beautiful. The queen huffs fondly at the most contrite face he can muster.  
  
"Go to bed, Gwaine," she tells him. "And if you make it back without disturbing anyone else, I'll even tell the king you're ill and cannot train this morning."  
  
Her voice is stern, but the amusement behind the words is plain enough. Gwaine straightens, curtseys and turns to leave. He pauses.  
  
"My queen, was this wall always this high?"

 **Mordred**  
  
Mordred runs into the queen on his third day in Camelot. Literally. He stumbles backwards, mortified, a thousand apologies bubbling from his lips. The queen shakes her head and smooths down her skirts.  
  
"No harm done," she says pleasantly, "and don't let me stop you if you're late for something."  
  
Mordred shakes his head helplessly. He has a list from Leon, is supposed to have found the kitchens, he knows that, but he has less than no idea where they actually are and has found the armoury, Gaius' chambers, the throne room and a small room that looked a little bit too important for the likes of him to be anywhere near. He's found his own quarters three times and can still swear that he at no point doubled back on himself.  
  
And none of the the words to explain any of this are coming out now. So he stares at the queen and fervently wishes for the ground to swallow him whole right this moment.  
  
"Are you lost?" she asks, and, feeling as if every part of him were made of stone, Mordred nods, slowly.  
  
The worst thing is, he thinks, is the kindness on her face. He hadn't been prepared for that; had not remembered (should he have remembered? he could barely think he would have forgotten) warm brown eyes, or the soft tones of welcome in her voice.  
  
"Where do you need to go?"  
  
Mordred holds out Leon's list to her, and the queen takes it, studies it for several seconds. After what feels like an age to Mordred, she giggles, light and fond and despairing.  
  
"Oh no, this-" she pauses, looks back at Mordred, face crinkled with mirth, "I don't think we keep ' _Mordred, did you even bother to check this list_?' in our stores."  
  
The world, Mordred thinks, definitely owes him one for not devouring him already. He feels a small pat on his shoulder.  
  
"I suggest you go back and find some actual work to do," says the queen, and moves away. "But if I might beg a favour," she looks back with a wicked grin, "do please ask Leon how he's getting along with that little snipe problem of mine."


End file.
